


You Say Moon-time Like It's a Dirty Word

by Lucifuge5



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> And that is how Bob Bryar ends up with werewolves for bandmates.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Say Moon-time Like It's a Dirty Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omens/gifts).



> **Warnings/Spoilers:** Werewolf AU in which Bob becomes My Chem’s drummer during Danger Days rather than before.
> 
>  **Author’s Note:** Written for Omens on the occasion of her birthday (Arooooooooo!). Betaed with much love and enthusiasm by the faboo Akamine_chan. All remaining mistakes are mine.

1.

“So now you know.” Gerard leans back and crosses his arms. The way his shoe-polish black hair curls up at the ends and his golden-brown eyes widen in seriousness make Bob think of a possibly androgynous version of Betty Boop.

Bob bites back a nervous chuckle and shoves the ill-timed thought out of his mind.

“Dude?” Frank looks at him, a half-smile on his lips, like he wants in on the joke.

Bob slides his right hand back and forth against his face, letting the momentary rasp of his beard distract him for a few seconds, buying some time. Signing up to be My Chem's drummer is a huge deal, possibly the biggest in his career. And he knows about the _other_ thing. The question is whether or not he can deal with all of it.

He's hung out with them a few times through the years. Not as much since My Chem and The Used stopped partying it up. Still, he remembers that, even drunk off his ass, Frank's never said jack squat about what any of them really _are_.

The urge to crack a joke about making a decision fades into the ether when Bob remembers his mother's words: _when faced with a Pack, your best chance to keep all your toes and fingers is to address the Alpha. Respect goes a long way with those creatures._ He rubs his hand over his face before talking. “Sorry. Mind went off somewhere.”

He focuses on Gerard. Though not sure if Gerard's the Alpha (or if this Pack even _has_ an Alpha; he'd been warned that this Pack is a little unconventional), he keeps his cool. Or, at least, tries to. “No problem,” he says, his gaze steady, “I'm in.”

“Just like that?” Ray narrows his eyes. Even his curls are suspicious.

“I've got some distant relatives who are, you know, werewolves.” He shrugs before trying to catch Gerard's eye. His stomach drops when Gerard ignores him in lieu of having some kind of silent conversation with Frank by scrunching his eyebrows every couple of seconds. _No sudden movements_ , he tells himself, placing his hands on the table, and breathing as evenly as he can. The last Pack he came across, somewhere in Europe back when he did sound tech for the Used, was an extremely shifty bunch.

“You _knew_ ,” Mikey says in a way that's a little too cool for Bob's liking. “About us, I mean.”

“I--um.” Bob glances at Mikey and then at the rest of the band. Though not exactly _afraid_ \--he made damn sure to schedule his interview during the new moon--he swallows hard when four werewolves stare at him with varying degrees of wariness.

He nods slowly and relaxes his shoulders. Maybe the Pack won't see him as a threat. Besides, there's no point in dealing with anything but the truth, not when in the presence of werewolves who can _smell_ dishonesty a mile away. He waits until his thoughts are all in order to answer. What he's about to say is not going to be pretty. “Brian mentioned it. Um, when I told him that you guys had asked me to do the tour.”

Just as expected, Mikey and Gerard's faces go from intrigued to closed off. Ray looks annoyed and Frank's downturned mouth is nothing next to the hurt reflected in his eyes.

The longer the silence goes, the surer Bob is that he's blown it. Any moment now he'll find himself being shown the door. “I'm sorry. I--I wanted to come in knowing what I was walking into. Who better than someone who'd been there?”

Frank stubs out his cigarette on the heavy crystal ashtray next to him and shakes his head. “Can't say that's not a little fucked up. The way things went down with Schechter . . . ,” he says in a flat tone. Bob ducks his head submissively again because, really, at this point there isn't much he can do. “But, it's also smart. You're a devious motherfucker, Bryar. I mean, werewolves or no, there is a difference between hanging out with us and playing gig after gig and shit.”

Bob taps a slow beat on the table as Frank looks at Mikey who looks at Ray who looks at Gerard.

It's kinda weird.

To his right, Ray tilts his head. “You said you've got weres in your family, right?”

“A few but--”

Mikey arches an eyebrow. “So, you kind of know the basics on what to do and, most importantly, what _not_ to do around, um, us.”

“Yeah, I guess. And, like, you guys can tell me what's off-limits and stuff for your, uh, Pack.”

Ray gives him a soft nod. His smile is human enough to put Bob at ease. Frank yawns, giving him a thumbs' up. Mikey cracks his knuckles a few times before flashing a closed-mouth smile.

Gerard runs his hands through his hair, making it look like a crazy wig. He grabs a lighter and his Starbucks latte. “All right. Let's check out your contract, have the lawyers go over the fine points and get us ready for the tour.” He gets up and steps out of the office.

And that is how Bob Bryar ends up with werewolves for bandmates.

 

2.

The weirdest thing about being surrounded by werewolves is how fucking _normal_ the whole thing is. Awkwardness does happens. In spades.

Starting with the _smell_. None of them might look dirty, but, for musicians who go home every night, none of them smell clean either.

Bob understands the 'needing to smell like the Pack' thing. Really, he does. The way Sam scrunches up her nose at him when he hugs her hello after that first rehearsal throws him up for a loop. “You smell _too_ manly,” she says in between chuckles.

He makes an apologetic face. The _last_ thing he'd want to do is bring all those different scents home. “OK, shower, then some groping of the naked kind?” Bob wiggles his eyebrows after kissing the tip of Sam's nose.

“You do that, babe,” she answers and pinches his ass as he heads to the bathroom.

*****

The scent-marking thing fades to the back of his mind. For the most part.

At first, the only times he becomes aware of it, of being tagged as property-of-a-Pack, happens when he comes across other werewolves and who-knows-what-elses. Like that female cop on La Brea who went from bored to confrontational a few seconds after Bob rolled his window down. Or the 7-11 clerk who got really _nervous_ when he and Frank walked in to buy smokes.

Things go a little crazy when Gerard announces that he's going to start embracing the visual concept for the album and comes back the next day with a head full of bright red hair. Ray frowns at him, Mikey _whines_ and Frank looks like someone has kicked him in the nuts. Bob stays seated because whatever is going on doesn't concern him. Much.

“The fuck?” Mikey says. Frank stands next to him looking equally upset.

Gerard puts his palms up. “At least I won't have to dye it as often as when I went blond for the Black Parade?”

“Ugh, don't remind me,” Ray says, shaking his head while he tunes up his guitar. “Never thought that chemical stink would ever fade away.”

“Looks cool,” Bob says, shifting on his seat and doing a quick rat-a-tat on the snare drum. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he opens his eyes. He wishes he'd kept his mouth shut because everyone but Gerard is giving him a death glare.

By the final week of pre-tour rehearsal, however, he no longer stares whenever he finds Mikey, Frank or Ray squished against Gerard on the beat-up leather couch at the rehearsal space whenever the latter redoes his vibrant, blood red hair.

Once the actual tour starts, the scent-thing intensifies.

It doesn't take long for him to realize that, other than pants (Frank's way too short to share), this band will wear each other clothes no matter how stinky the clothing might be. Bob would get it had this been My Chem's first tour (there had only been so much space for clothing _and_ gear that first time overseas). However, everyone brings at least two huge bags packed with both stage and regular outfits.

In the end, it's a moot point since Frank will wear Mikey's black t-shirt (even though it almost reaches to the middle of his thighs) or Gerard will snatch Frank's jean jacket (which hasn't been washed for at least a month) or Mikey and Ray will wear each other socks. Though a lot can be explained by “touring musicians”, there's also this sort of _compulsion_ behind the band's need to smell like themselves all the freaking time. Bob's thankful that both Way brothers are less shower-averse than they were back in 2005.

“Keeps us grounded,” Rays tells him one day when they're sitting in a bar in Tokyo. “Like, we know the Pack's together because we can see each other, right?”

Bob takes a swig of his beer. “Yeah.”

“But there's this, I don't know, overwhelming need to know, to _really know_ that we're all there. What better way that to smell each other's presence?” Ray gives him a side smile before ordering another round of beers.

Less than a month into the tour, Bob's happy that the only things he's lost to the Pack are a couple of scarves and three of his black knit hats.

 

3.

That feeling of “normal” goes right out the window the first time the full moon approaches. Everyone's personalities become _intense_ until Bob wonders if he made the right decision.

Mikey and Frank get touchy-feely--nothing unusual for that twosome. The thing is, they get _touchy-feelier_. After the umpteenth time of finding Mikey and Frank practically dry-humping on the bus lounge, Bob learns to sidestep their marathon makeout sessions. Though how neither Mikey nor Frank's faces or necks show any beard burn remains a mystery.

It's way early in the tour to be exhausted, but Mikey will literally zonk out anywhere whenever he's not sucking face with Frank. Half the time, he'll pass out in his bunk, but the other half it'll happen at either of the bus lounges or in the venues' green rooms. Regardless of where Mikey falls asleep, Frank will be curled up around him, giving an evil eye at anyone who tries to wake Mikey up. The rest of the band shrugs it off and Bob decides that the best thing to do is to follow their lead.

Soundchecks get re-scheduled to after 4 p.m.

Late into the night and comfortable in his bunk, Bob can swear he hears what sounds like giggle-growls coming from wherever Frank and Mikey are, but he's not stupid enough to go take a look.

When out in public, Bob catches Frank stroking the inside of Mikey's wrists or standing so close to him it's a miracle they don't become a single-bodied organism. And Mikey doesn't seem to mind. If anything, Frank’s constant groping appears to relax him.

*****

Gerard's _weirdness_ isn't obvious until they make a stop at one of those 24-hour supermarkets. The clock might read 2 a.m. yet everyone stumbles out of the bus to stretch their legs, get some snacks, ciggies, whatever and ostensibly spend a few minutes away from each other. Not that _that_ actually happens, because the Pack keeps to the same general area regardless of how big the store is.

Bob walks around, his basket full of general toiletries and new underwear, not really thinking about anything. A quick glance at his watch and he hurries his steps. It’s time to start gathering the stragglers and herd them toward checkout. He finds Gerard standing in the meat section. The 'hey' he's about to say dies on his lips.

Because Gerard is _staring_ at the meat like it is the most beautiful thing in the entire universe.

Face devoid of any expression, his gaze jumps from the frozen turkey to the bright red steaks on the top shelf of the refrigerated area to the bright yellow chicken legs at the bottom part and then spends a few seconds studying the ground beef. Arms by his sides, other than the rise and fall of his chest, the only part of Gerard that moves are his fingers. Which twitch a little. Bob would really like to think that's because Gerard might be overcaffeinated.

Gerard's nostrils flare every so often, like he's trying to hold on to the smell of blood that might be too faint for Bob to catch but not for Gerard. Maybe to the casual, late-late night shopper, Gerard's some random grungy dude trying to decide what to cook for a barbeque.

Bob knows better. The concentration that Gerard shows is that of a _hunter_.

 _Run!_ flashes in big red letters inside Bob's mind. He might not be prey, but he steps up cautiously. A startled werewolf is no laughing matter, even in human form. He places a hand on his shoulder. “Gerard?” He keeps his voice soft.

“Hmm?” Gerard's twists his head towards him, but his eyes stay glued to the raw meat. He moves forward and reaches out to the nearest package of ground beef, sliding his right hand over the meat, safely wrapped in plastic, caressing it.

Bob thinks through what he was going to say ( _“I think it's time to go”_ ). But the combination of Gerard being wolfish plus the oncoming full moon and all that meat makes Bob take a step back. He doesn't have to be here, maybe he _shouldn't_ be.

If Gerard needs to commune with raw meat, so be it. “Nothing,” Bob says and heads to the register. The further he's from this place, the better.

Later that night, Frank does an exaggerated shrug when Bob tells him about Gerard. “He's getting his head in the zone.”

Bob frowns.

“He’s, like, clearing the path to make the transition easier, you know?” Frank says, flicking his lighter on and off. “Sometimes, it’s not like in the movies where the werewolf feels the heavy pull of the full moon or whatever and then grrrr!” Frank scrunches his hands into mock paws and bares his teeth. He lowers his arms and his voice turns serious. “Certain, um, things make it easier, but it's best for Gerard if he uses methods that don't include intoxicants. Think of it as, I dunno, foreplay or something.”

Bob feels his eyebrows nearly touch the top of his forehead. Gerard in werewolf form _and_ high is one of the scariest things he can think of. “'night,” he says, turning to his side and closing his curtain.

That night, he dreams of fangs snapping at his throat.

*****

Ray's wolfishness manifests as a shutting out of anyone who isn’t in the Pack. He takes to the back of the bus, where the studio is, and spends hours after the concerts headphones on, holed up and mixing songs. He'll smile onstage, have bits and pieces of conversation on the dead mike, and drink his beer in between songs. However, there's an edge to his behavior that Bob finds unnerving if he looks at it too closely. There's no friendliness in Ray's words onstage. Offstage, there's only a cold shoulder and the occasional grunt.

By the time the full moon is one day away, everyone's feeling its tug.

On the one hand, the band's _on fire_. To Bob, it is as if someone had flipped an ON switch because their gig is a bullet train of songs and sweat and Gerard and Frank groaning for far too long during DESTROYA and Ray shredding his guitar like his _soul_ depended on it. Mikey can't stop bouncing either, flicking his hair, bumping into Frank, giving Bob a kinda vicious look or two, showing all of his teeth at Gerard and Ray.

Out of everyone, Mikey's usually the one who will stick to one spot, serious-faced and barely swinging his hips on a rare occasion, only talking into the live mike whenever they play “Vampire Money”. So, this _electrified_ version of Mikey spooks Bob a lot.

He can't see that far into the audience, even on his riser, there's a considerable distance from where the stage ends and the crowd begins. Still, Bob can feel this massive _energy_ directed at them from all the people, all the _humans_ , that are eating up everything that the band's throwing at them tonight. The louder Gerard growls, the crazier the fans get.

Hours after the concert, swaying in time with the bus, Bob spends almost an hour looking for his cell phone through every nook and cranny of the front of the bus.

Eventually, he makes his way to the back--which, yeah, he had been avoiding. James is softly snoring in his bunk and Bob shoots him an annoyed stare as he walks by. Apparently, werewolves' angsty pre-full moon behavior is a trivial matter to Dewees.

Thankfully, the recording studio's door is open so the Pack can see him approaching.

Ray is sitting in front of his laptop, music turned up loud enough for some of it to filter out of his headphones, and ignoring everyone else.

Gerard is doodling something that needs _a lot_ of red, half-humming something classic, like Iron Maiden. He jerks his chin at Bob in acknowledgement before looking back at his sketchbook.

Mikey sits on the floor by the corner of the room, eyes closed, one of the small sofa cushions from the front lounge propped up behind his head, legs spread out in front of him. Frank's on his belly, sprawled across Mikey's lap, reading something on his Kindle.

Everyone's still wearing their stage clothes. Bob tries not to grimace at the collective stench of dried sweat and grime. “Uh, sorry,” he says. Though not quite an intruder, he can't shake off the feeling that he's not exactly wanted here. “I'm looking for my phone,” he says to no one in particular.

“'s by the coffee machine. Picked it up by mistake. It kinda looks like mine. Sorry,” Mikey answers, eyes still closed. The fingertips of his right hand caress Frank's lower back, right on the area where the muzzles of his gun tattoos cross.

“Thanks,” Bob says and heads back out to the kitchenette. Maybe, one day, the band acting wolf-y will be as normal to Bob as having his morning cigarette.

Or maybe Bob has to get over himself.

 

4.

Bob is half-relieved, half-curious (still) about the werewolf thing once the full moon is gone and everyone goes back to being their normal selves.

Days become nights become weeks, and Bob is still full of questions about the full moon (where did the Pack _go_ to wolf out? What did they _do_?) However, he tamps down the urge to ask anything. _Don't be rude_ , he thinks whenever he's just about to bring up the whole wolfing out topic with Ray or Frank.

One morning, he's standing in the middle of Frank and Mikey's room, waiting for Frank to finish getting ready so they can go meet up with the others. “Mikey and Gee went on a coffee hunt,” Frank tells him as he searches through his bags. “Those two will wake up at the crack ass of dawn for their caffeine fix. Me? I like sleeping.”

“I think Dewees and Ray are still snoring,” Bob says, glancing at the unmade bed and the ripped foil wrappers on the night table. Frank clears his throat.

“You smell, um, _peppery_ ,” Frank says, taking his shaving kit into the bathroom. “What's on your mind?”

Bob bites his lip ring, pulling it a little before letting it go. “The full moon. How does that work for you guys? I mean . . .”

Frank sucks his teeth and gives him an amused look. “What? You want to see the Pack in action? All you had to do is ask. No one's gonna _growl_ if you come along and hang out Thursday night.” He spreads the foam on his jaw and neck.

Bob's aware of what Frank's offering. The unspoken display of trust makes the air heavy.

“Well, not to, like, hang, _hang_ ,” Frank says, breaking the silence, and takes out a disposable razor from the small bag. “'cause I have no idea how _that_ would even happen. But you can, like, see us all wolfed out and shit. Get it out of your system.”

The temptation is great; Bob can feel a part of him wanting to accept, but still _wolves_. Gnashing teeth. Claws.

Frank sniffs the air and puts down his razor. “Listen,” he says, looking at Bob's reflection, “we're not, like, tame but I doubt we would bite you. We _won't_ eat you.”

“OK,” Bob answers and he pretends that his heart isn't running the NYC marathon all of the sudden. “So, what do I do?”

“I think there's a sleeping bag somewhere in the bus.” Frank stares at the bathroom ceiling before smiling back at him. “Bring some snacks. Like, uh, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. No--no one likes those when we're wolfed out. Obviously, we'll get our own _food_.” Frank's apologetic smile puts images of viscera and a rather graphic predator vs. prey scenario in Bob's head. He leans against the frame of the bathroom door.

Frank resumes his shaving. “Finally, uh, we'll need you to give us your t-shirt from tonight's concert.”

“The scent thing,” Bob says, trying not to grimace. He's no delicate flower. He can deal. “Yeah, I get it.”

“We just want to make sure that's one of the first things we smell. It's like a type of werewolf insurance,” Frank says as he wipes all remaining foam off of his face.

*****

They leave the bus a little past midnight. Crossing the outskirts of the woods, the five of them walk briskly. Owls hoot above them. Ray and Gerard lead the trek in total silence. Mikey and Frank are to Bob's right, holding hands and mumbling something to each other.

The moon is not high enough yet to keep all the shadows away. Bob doesn't know how he feels about that.

He grunts, hoisting his backpack to keep himself balanced as the terrain gains a little bit of an incline. Everyone has changed out of their performance clothes, but didn't shower or washed up. The mixed odors of sweat, cigarettes, beer hangs around the group even through the mild breeze.

They reach the outside of a small cave right around the time Bob starts to think that he won't make it. Feels like they've been walking for hours. Ray stands outside, eyes focused on a woodsy area below them while Gerard and Bob set up the 'camp.'

It's not much: a good sleeping bag, a lamp, bottled water, some pb&j sandwiches, a change of clothes for the band and Frank's Kindle.

Eventually, Ray starts pacing which seems to get the ball rolling. Soon, Frank, Gerard and even Mikey get sort of _agitated._ Bob stops fiddling with the lamp and looks at the band. He hands over his concert t-shirt, damp with the sweat and stinking to high heaven, to a somber-faced Gerard.

“We've got to go. 's happening soon,” Frank says as Mikey pulls him to the outside. “See you in a while.”

All four of them walk off in peaceful silence.

Bob waves good-bye and hopes everything goes all right. He places the lamp on his left side and waits.

*****

Much as he tries to stay awake, the relative quiet of the cave and his exhaustion from that night's performance and all that fucking walking does a number on Bob. Warm and cozy inside the sleeping bag, he doesn't even have a chance to turn Frank's Kindle on before he drifts into sleep.

A sharp bark wakes him right up. He doesn't know how much time has passed, only that he conked out hard enough to leave a drool spot on the sleeping bag. Heart thumping hard, he rubs his eyes and freezes up at the fucking _wolf_ that seems to be smiling at him.

The wolf yips before pouncing on him and swiping his tongue on the side of Bob's face.

Pushed onto his back by the weight of the wolf, Bob holds on to what little courage he's got left. There's a wolf, a fucking heavy wolf, standing on all four above him, tilting his head, like he's waiting for Bob's acknowledgment. Bob wishes he could say something, anything, but there's a snout filled with some of the sharpest and longest teeth he's ever seen.

Another swipe of the tongue seems to snap Bob out of his stupor. “Fucking scared me, man,” he says, still not sure of _who_ he's talking to. The wolf backtracks until he reaches the bottom of the sleeping bag. Bob has mere seconds to pull up his legs when the wolf snatches a corner and tries to drag the bag with him still in it.

“Hold up. Hold up!” Bob says loud enough to make the wolf stop. He's relieved to know that whoever it is, that he can be understood. Sitting up once again, he groans as he starts to slide out of his bag. “Let me wiggle out of here and then I'll--” A low growl makes him look up and he stares. With the moon at its highest, Bob doesn't need the lamp to see what-- _who_ \--is watching him right now.

There are three other wolves standing outside. The largest one sniffs the air and trots between the entrance of the cave and the outside. The other two wolves, one leaner than the other, sit down to the side. Bob can almost swear that the one on the right has a bored expression.

“Ray,” he says pointing at the wolf that's pacing. He then jerks his chin at the remaining two wolves. “Gee and Mikey or Mikey and Gee. You guys kinda look alike.” He looks at the wolf that woke him up. “So that makes you Frank, right? Hey, no more jumping on me!”

Frank snaps at the air when Bob puts his hands up. He then goes to Mikey and nuzzles Mikey's snout. Mikey stands still during Frank's attentions, even when Frank bites (Bob hopes softly) on his ears. It's a sweet moment (though Bob will never admit that to another living soul for as long as he lives.)

Ray snorts at the pair (it looks to Bob like he's rolling his eyes) and then, he takes off into the woods at the foot of the hill. Gerard and Mikey follow him a short time later. Frank whines, looking at his wolfmates and then back at Bob.

Soon, two distant howls, in complete harmony, echo from somewhere that's not that far away.

A part of Bob's heart hurts--it'd be great to be one of the Pack--but there are many, many things to consider before even thinking of bringing that up with the band. “Go,” he tells Frank. “Go. They're calling you. I'll be here.”

Frank's eyes glow golden, the reflection of the light from the lamp. He tilts his head up and answers his Pack with a short howl of his own. Licking his muzzle, Frank woofs and takes off into the darkness.

“Fuck me,” he says to no one.

In the distance, wolves howl.

*****

Bob tries to turn to his side but there's something fucking heavy on the lower part of his legs. There's also an odor that makes him think of rotten garbage hitting him right on the face. “The hell?” he says, opening his eyes. Morning's approaching—the sky's begun to lighten up even though the sun's rays haven't even appeared.

He yawns and tries to stretch when his mind _finally_ wakes up and gets with the program. The Pack came back to him sometime in the night. Mikey's by his feet and Frank laying across his shins, snoring away. Gerard is curled up on his right and Ray--who's facing him--is on his left. Bob squints at the dirt on Ray's muzzle and has a quiet freak out when he realizes that's not dirt but _dried blood_. He manages to snake his left arm out and gently, oh so very gently push Ray's muzzle away without waking him up.

 _Blood, entrails, prey, hunt_.

Still, the Pack's here and, though a mostly uneventful night, there's a feeling of being safe, of home, of _belonging_ that Bob embraces.

Wolf or no, he's found his Pack.

-fin-


End file.
